


Among The Long Shadows of The Lions

by kaijuburgers



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, Established Relationship, F/M, Orlesian (Dragon Age) Balls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26865541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijuburgers/pseuds/kaijuburgers
Summary: Morrigan hears that The Grey Wardens have delegated an ambassador to the Inquisition, and she can’t help but hope that it’s her Warden. When he is presented at Halamshiral, she waits with baited breath for him to make his way across the ballroom to her. But the Winter Palace- with all its peering eyes and masked treachery- is no place for a peaceful reunion.
Relationships: Male Aeducan/Morrigan (Dragon Age), Morrigan/Male Warden (Dragon Age)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 7
Collections: A Paragon of Their Kind Dragon Age Dwarf Exchange





	Among The Long Shadows of The Lions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pen99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pen99/gifts).



When Morrigan heard that the The Grey Wardens had delegated an ambassador to the Inquisition following the events at Adamant Fortress, she couldn’t help but hope with all her heart that it was _her_ Warden. The letters he had always been so diligent at sending- his handwriting still the same heavy solid lines after all these years- had stopped coming months before. She’d waited for them with bated breath for a little while, sitting in the Winter Palace’s courtyards and gardens in case one of the Empress’ agents came to her with a sealed letter. She’d dreamed about seeing the familiar seal pressed into blue wax, about tearing the envelope open the moment she was alone and about finally reading what her beloved had to say to her. But that moment had never come. All Morrigan had was the news that had emerged slowly out of the Western Approach, a little rumour here or there trickling slowly like blood from a stone. Tales of demons and blood rituals, of stepping into the Fade and out again, of far more than could possibly true.

She’d known it was foolish to hope. Hope was a dangerous thing, a powerless kind of desire. Once, long ago, Morrigan had told somebody that to hope against all likelihood was to all but hand the world a little piece of control over oneself. And she still stood by those words, but she had still hoped anyway. When Morrigan caught a glimpse of him across the ballroom at Halamshiral, her heart caught in her throat even before he was announced.

“Duran Aeducan,” the herald of the ball said, his voice echoing through the gilded hall, empty and full at the same time. “Warden-Commander of Fereldan, Hero of the Fifth Blight, Paragon of Orzammar, heir of the House Aeducan of Orzammar.”

Morrigan barely heard his words, because even across the room and surrounded by a crowd of masked figures that seemed to move to block her view as much as they could, she could not take her eyes off of the Warden. _Her Warden_. He was exactly as she remembered him being, the blond curls of his hair pulled back into a loose plait, his beard kept in a series of interlocking braids. Or at least he was exactly how she remembered him except for the clothes he was wearing. He was dressed in finery; a woollen jacket with a silk sash tied around it, and Morrigan couldn’t help but notice that the jacket was Warden Blue, the sash the same metallic grey as the silverite breastplate he wore into battle.

Sometimes it was easy to forget that Duran was once a Prince, but from the way he walked along the length of the ballroom, she couldn't let it slip her mind. He was confident and measured and every inch the statesman. But most importantly he was hers. And he was in Halamshiral. The two nobles gossiping beside Morrigan turned away from each other and towards the dance floor, watching him with eyes that flickered behind their pale featureless masks.

“You would almost think,” the man remarked, lifting his hand to where his mouth would be as if in thought, his voice much less quiet than he obviously thought he was. “That he was the Inquisitor, and not her.”

Morrigan noticed the woman standing beside Duran. She was a few inches shorter, her dark hair pulled back into a braid similar to his. Where his jacket and sash were cool tones of blue and silver, hers were red and gold, warm and bright. That wasn’t the only difference between the two of them- where he strode confidently, every step forward seemed hesitant, her eyes darting around the room. _The Inquisitor_ , Morrigan realised. _Cadash_.

The masked lady laughed, although it was really more of a half-choked snort. “You really think that she is the Herald of Andraste,” she said, even less subtly than the lord she was speaking with. Her thick accent curling around the words. From Churneau?, Morrigan couldn’t help but try and guess. “Not just a dwarf, but one of _them_.”

It was more than loud enough that the lady likely intended for Morrigan to overhear. Beyond that, it was loud enough that when Cadash turned her head to their side of the ballroom, for a moment Morrigan thought she might have heard. But the look was brief, the Inquisitor’s gaze moving back to the center of the ballroom. But not brief enough that Morrigan did not see the tattoo on her cheek and suddenly know exactly what the lady had been talking about and why Cadash looked so uncomfortable.

She was casteless.

Not all the Orlesians around and between them knew what it meant, of course. Morrigan herself only knew because her Warden had told her. During the Blight, she’d slowly moved her bedroll closer and closer to the centre of their campsite, until she’d found herself sitting beside him, listening and watching as he spoke of the life he’d had before he was a Warden, about Orzammar, and- most importantly- about the Carta and its dealings. But the few who did know seemed to find enough scandal in them to make it worth conversation, and as Morrigan moved across the ballroom towards her Warden- the long skirt of her dress making her seem to float- she could hear titterings of outrage, like the busy song of crickets in late summertime. She stopped with a little distance still between her and Duran, waiting for him to notice her first. Morrigan had not been born to the courts of Orlais, but she had learned how to walk them. There were too many eyes on both her and Duran to do any more than that. The Empress may have wanted Morrigan as an advisor, but the presence of an apostate at court - let alone one with her history- was alarming for many. Everything Morrigan did would be dissected by the pale expressionless faces around her, and she knew it. To walk up to the Hero of Ferelden and ask him to dance; that would set too many tongues in motion. So she waited instead.

Ever the smart lad, Duran noticed her.

Morrigan had once said that love was weakness. That love grew inside whoever felt it and made them do foolish things. That had been a long time ago, when the two of them had been barely older than youth, with all the arrogance that brought. It had started without love, but just passion and the respect of equals. But it had changed. They had changed. Morrigan still stood by her words in one sense; when Duran noticed her, a small smile coming to the corners of his lips, she felt weak. Her face flushed, just a little. She kept her face as expressionless as possible, but she could feel an unexpressed look of joy pull at the muscles of her face. It was a weakness, but it was one that she wanted, one that she chose. As he made his way through the swarm of nobles, his eyes locked with hers, placing a gentle and restrained kiss to the back of her outstretched hand, she found herself breathless.

“Lady Morrigan,” he began, the words formal enough that as small amount of kindling as possible would be added to the rumours Morrigan knew circulated about them. “Would you care to dance?”

“I sincerely hope,” she replied, voice low and heavy with a not-quite explicit promise. “That you intend to do more than dance, Warden-Commander.”

To begin with, the dance was a little stilted. Despite being half a foot shorter, Duran still led as they circled each other to the soft flow of music, gazes locked. It was a dance made for a pair who were not shaped like them; even when the Warden gently lowered her into a dip, she towered above him. But the two of them grew a little more graceful with each second as they adjusted the movements of the Lydes waltz. When Duran’s hands found their way around Morrigan’s waist and her arms found their way to rest on his shoulders, Morrigan couldn’t help but think about how he looked under the soft, warm glow of the chandelier candles. It would be all too easy, she thought, to forget where they were, and think of nothing except how easy it would be to reach forward and kiss him.

“The court are watching us,” she said as Duran lowered her into another dip. The movement was elegant, his body in tune with the slow music. But there was a harshness to it too, a constant reminder of the warrior he was.

He smiled up at her. “Let them watch.”

When Morrigan had first arrived at Celene’s court, the Empress had insisted Morrigan take dancing lessons. She had hated it, of course. But she had at least remembered her lessons, and in particular she could not help but think of how her dancing tutor had described the ideal dancing lead as Duran led her across the floor. A good lead, Tutor Montlaures had told her, is unsubtle in his softness. He leads gently, but clearly states his intentions to his follow. And he respects his follow; he never forces movement from her, instead gently guiding her through her every movement.

“When I heard that the Inquisition had a Warden, I had hoped it was you,” she admitted, voice the quietest whisper she was sure he would still hear. Something flashed in his eyes for a moment, a mix of guilt and joy and sorrow.

“I know,” he said as they circled back to the middle of the ballroom. “And I wish I could have told you that it was earlier.”

Something in Morrigan’s heart clenched, and she felt her breathing become heavier for a moment, her body stiffening for an instant. Duran noticed it, the hand that lay on her hip starting to gently squeeze. All Morrigan could do was try and remember what Montlaures had told her about a good follow. That a good follow allows her lead to feel exactly where she is and what she is doing. That a good follow adapts to changes in direction and movement, allows the lead to take command, trusts him with her well-being on the ballroom floor. But an ideal follow will make things difficult if her lead does not treat her well. She demands respect. 

Morrigan gripped onto Duran’s shoulder a little tighter. 

“One does not come to Halamshiral only to dance, my love,” she said. “Why are you here?”

Duran frowned, and was silent for a moment, slowly guiding them to the centre of the dance floor. He caught her hand in his, gently dipping her as he whispered in her ear, his breath hot against her neck.

“Not here. Too many eyes. Find us somewhere private, and I’ll tell you.”

After the dance, she did.

The balcony trellises were covered in blue roses and the smell of them hung in the air, cloying and sweet. Despite the distance Morrigan had put between the two of them and the ballroom, she could still hear the gentle hum of the party in the distance, faded but refusing to be ignored. Below the balcony lay one of the Winter Palace’s garden courtyards; not one of the grandest, but still imposing, a row of lion statues interspersed with trellises and topiary trees. Morrigan went onto the balcony first, the long trail of her skirt brushing against the floor, the fabric threatening to catch on the corners of the tiles. Duran followed, closing the heavy doors behind them. It was darker here than it had been inside, with only the faintest candlelight managing to fight its way through the heavy drapes that lined the balcony-adjacent windows on the inside. When Morrigan turned to look at Duran, she could barely make out his expression. But it was safer that way. A light on the balcony would mean that somebody passing them by- either through the hallways or below the balconies in the gardens- would instantly know that somebody was there. Morrigan had spend enough time in the wilds to know that snakes were attracted to the lights, and enough time in Celene’s court to know that was true in Orlais too. And if Duran only wished to speak in private, then what he wished to say should not be overheard. 

“Morrigan,” Duran began, and his voice cracked, as if there were so much more that he wanted to say than was possible. As he stepped towards her, she extended a hand. He took it in his, squeezing gently. She squeezed back. “I should have sent more letters.”

“Why did you not?” Morrigan said, the words flowing from her mouth as slow as honey flowing from a jar. He would see her words as evidence that she had missed him, and that made her hesitant. In truth, she had. Morrigan was not so fragile that some time from him would shatter her heart, but she _had_ missed him. He had been good to her, but even after all this time, there was still a part of her that did not want the fact to be made known. “Why did you not tell me you were with the Inquisition? That you would be presented at Halamshiral?”

“Leliana is the Inquisition spymaster. Neither of our letters would have remained sealed.”

It was blunt, it was unexpected, and above all else it made Morrigan laugh. 

“Let her read them,” Morrigan said, and there, surrounded by roses and with her Warden by her side, she found her voice became a purr even before she willed it to. “Let her learn things that would make even an Orlesian blush.”

Duran was not an Orlesian, but even in the dim light, Morrigan would have sworn his face was flushed. He stepped forward towards her, and she could hear the sound of his breath, deeper and slower and more full of intention with each passing moment. 

“Morrigan,” he said again, and the way he said it made heat rise from Morrigan’s stomach to her chest. Even with the scent of the roses clinging to the air and with the starched fabric of the jacket Duran was wearing, she could still smell him. He still smelled how he always had; like leather and earth and wood and spice. He was so close that when Morrigan spoke, she was sure he could feel her hot breath on his cheek, and she hoped it made him feel the way his on hers made her feel.

“Yes?” she asked, even though she knew exactly what he had meant. When he reached up to kiss her, she kissed him back. His hand rested on the curve of her hip and even with the thick fabric of her corset, she could feel the strength of his palms as he gently pressed them against her. It was a gentle and careful kiss, starting with their lips only just parting slightly as they met. _Their first kiss had been nothing like this_ , Morrigan couldn’t help but think. It had been a wild passionate thing, mouths open and moans in the back of their throats. But the difference didn’t feel like a loss. Even after all this time, the gentlest kiss still made her want to melt against him. He circled his arms around her, and she smiled against him. Maybe it was _because_ it happened after all this time. 

She wanted to just stay like that- with her lips pressed against his- for hours. But the low noise of the ball carried on in the background, always reminding Morrigan that there was still work to be done. She pulled away from the kiss, standing tall and upright as she looked down at him.

“That leaves one question unanswered,” she said, trying to ignore the desire to ignore everything else in the world but them, and kiss him again. “Why did you not tell me that you would be at Halamshiral?” Even in the dark, she saw the glint of something in his eyes.

“Ah,” he said sheepishly. “Well.” The night air was cold and still, and Morrigan was suddenly aware of how little protection the layers and folds of her skirt offered her from the chill. She cocked an eyebrow down at her love, watched as the Warden’s spine stiffed under her gaze.

“Morrigan,” he said, running a thumb over her knuckles. “For a long while, I didn’t know the Inquisition would send me here. And why the Inquisition is here is… something that does not need to become common knowledge.” 

The implication was clear enough. It did not have to be spoken aloud for the both of them to understand what Duran meant. But Morrigan had never been one for coyness, despite the extent to which she had become embedded in the Game.

“An assassin then,” she said. “That is standard for the Orlesians, is it not? Which house has decided they have taken enough offence this time?”

True to her words, an assassin at an Orlesian ball was nothing noteworthy. Orlais had all but turned assassination into its national pastime. The Bard, after all, was an Orlesian creation; a kind of performer and singer and spy and assassin, who everyone knew the nature of but allowed to exist anyway, as long as the true nature of the bard was hidden behind a mask—just deniable enough. Morrigan had been at enough parties and soirees where assassinations had been attempted that knowing the reason the Inquisition had been presented was a relief. Or at least it was until she looked down at her Warden, and saw the grave expression on his face. 

“It’s more than that, Morrigan,” he said, and briefly she wondered how many assassination attempts he had witnessed in Orzammar, the same way she had witnessed them here. “I wouldn’t be here if this were just about squabbling nobles. Somebody is planning to kill the Empress tonight.”

Morrigan opened her mouth, and nothing came out. 

It was not an experience she was used to, being speechless. She decided then- with the love of her life holding her hand, as if he had not just come to her with some of the gravest news he could- that it was not an experience she liked either. There was a flash of empathy in Duran’s eyes as he broke the silence between the two of them.

“I don’t know all the details, but this Magister the Inquisition is fighting?” Duran didn’t wait for a response, but he squeezed Morrigan’s hand a little tighter. “Orlais is on loose sand, and he wants it to fall. Needs the chaos. His agent is the one planning to kill Celene.”

After he spoke, silence fell between them for a little while longer. When a cheer erupted from the party, it felt so far away it might as well have been in a different world.

“So,” Morrigan said finally, her voice somehow stable despite everything. “The Inquisitor is here to keep Celene from her death?” 

Duran shrugged. “I assume so. That or…” He trailed off, as if he had suddenly remembered where he was and the danger of his words. But again, the implication was clear. “In truth, I do not know which of the two it is.”

The noise came as a faint scratching at first, and if it hadn’t been for Duran’s warning, Morrigan would have dismissed it. She might have explained it away as the sound of a lost servant, or some kind of vermin, or even just a product of her imagination. But after what he had told her, she could do no such thing. When she turned, it was still in a graceful semicircle, turning away from her Warden and down towards the garden, but that didn’t mean there was no urgency to it. There was a sound again, this time like the scrape of metal on stone, and as she leaned on the balcony railing, Duran moved to stand beside her. The draped windows at the north side of the courtyard let out just enough light that the statues within it cast shadows and among the long shadows of the lions, Morrigan saw something move.

Duran saw it too, and Morrigan knew because he looked at her in that way. It was hard to explain, and harder still to describe how she knew. The best explanation Morrigan could give is that when they had fought at each others’ sides- blade to staff, back to back- they had learned the other’s tells. They had learned them so well that it was no longer just reading body language or expressions- Morrigan was still looking down towards the garden when Duran gave her the look, and she still knew. She nodded, and he understood too.

“Shall we?” he said, and Morrigan had to bite back the urge to chuckle. It felt like old times; like they were young and foolish again, running headfirst into fights with enemies they did not yet know the strength of. After all, the instincts she would have had if he had not come to her with a warning could be correct. The noise in the gardens was not necessarily a spy or an assassin. But if Duran had come to her with the truth- and she trusted him more than she trusted anything or anyone else- then there could be no chances. 

“Come then,” she said, her voice a whisper, so as not to alert whoever was down amongst the shadows.

**Author's Note:**

> AAAA thank you for this prompt! It's not a ship I've ever written for again, and the extra challenge of trying to fit it into DAI was also very fun! I decided to go with an AU because I'm a coward, and also because I thought it could slot in very nicely with Morrigan finding the Tevinter agent she tells the Inquisitor about


End file.
